


Classified

by Tammany



Series: Sweet Mystrade Fluff [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Love Revealed, M/M, Reveal, Teasing Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 01:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2563547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is more or less a sequel to Control, though it's not an immediate sequel. Lestrade's POV, includes memories, focuses on the moment when, Lestrade injured, his relationship with Mycroft is revealed to John, and then Sherlock. But they're more or less secondary--the trigger, but not the gunshot.</p><p>Hope you enjoy. This one's sappy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Classified

An Italian translation of this story, by Moonflower, can be found here! http://archiveofourown.org/works/4278357

 

“When were you going to tell me?” John growled, as he and Lestrade loped along, bent over, through the shadowed access tunnel.

“Never,” Lestrade replied. “Keep crawling. They’re going to realize where we’ve got to soon enough.”

“Fuck.”

Lestrade didn’t answer. He was too busy working to keep his head down, his eyes up, and his legs in motion. The pipes hung low in the tunnel. It wasn’t made for ordinary human use, only for emergency maintenance, and the ceilings were low—the pipes lower—the massive iron connection points and bends lower still. Even trying, he kept hitting his head on things.

John was lucky. He might be only a few inches shorter, but they were a critical few inches. He was likely to come out of this night without a concussion. Lestrade was fairly sure in his own case that was already a lost cause. He added it to “without being shot,” and “without any broken bones.”

“So. You didn’t tell me you knew Sherlock was alive.”

“Classified information, mate. Sorry.”

“You didn’t tell me you were an agent.”

“Classified. John, please, shut up….”

“You didn’t tell me anything.”

“What part of classified don’t you understand, short-stuff? Ow. Fucking goddamn _ow!”_ He’d hit his head again, this time where two massive iron plates butted up against each other and were bolted together. He’d cracked his temple on one of the protruding bolts. He could feel blood trickle down his face. He stumbled on, ignoring John’s voice still growling and cursing in the background.

Damn it, he thought, why did the Volpones have to track him down when John was there? And why did they have to perform a classic moron monologue explaining why he had to die—and his unfortunate short friend, too, who was in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Granted, it had given John a chance to throw a chair, and Greg a chance to slip out the Walther he’d been carrying. But, still, as late night encounters with old mates went, he’d have much preferred not to have John recognize him in that pub and follow him out to the basement car park.

“I think we can turn here,” he panted. “Jags into the Tube. With luck we can disappear into the crowd before they get there.”

“Putting civilians in danger?” John growled.

“Got any other ideas, sonny Jim?”

Apparently not. They bulleted out of the old access line to a maintenance tunnel for the Tube, and from there out into the miracle of Paddington Station at closing—everyone who was afraid of being stuck where they were, instead of someplace else, was in. They didn’t go unnoticed—Lestrade was an ugly, bloody mess, with half his face covered, his shirt red, and the graze on his leg turning his trousers a darker black than ever.

“Phone,” John said.

“They took it,” Lestrade growled, regretting the loss of his mobile desperately.

“No, wait.” John’s hand fisted into Lestrade’s collar, stopping him in his tracks. He turned to a passing stranger—a middle-class woman, looking like a suburban mum come into London for the day—and said, in his best officer voice, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I need to use your mobile. This will only take a second. Police business.”

She blinked, and frowned, and said, “Warrant card, please?”

“For the love of God, if he had his warrant card he’d have his mobile,” John snapped. “You can stand right there and listen, but he’s wounded and we need backup.”

In the heat and the crowd and the light and the roar of the tube station, Lestrade had begun to feel injured. Really injured—going into shock, swimmy from blood loss, the edges of his sight beginning to go dark. He noted that apparently the woman—or some other civilian—had given John a phone. He heard him call someone. He wondered mildly whether the other man had called the ambulance, the Met station, Sherlock, Mycroft, or someone else.

“Come on—we’ve got to get you up the escalator. I told them I’d try to get you up there—easier to retrieve if they don’t have to get you up to the top, right?”

“Uh,” Lestrade agreed, and allowed John and someone twittery and kind and rather wet to chivvy him onto the stair. He gripped the rail firmly, and tried to ignore the feeling of illness as they went up, and up.

John gave him a sharp push at the top, or he’d have fallen over when the stairs folded away in the escalator mechanism under his toes.

“Come on, a few more feet, right, now, there’s a bench, we can—“ John stopped, abrupty, then waved, “Oi! Over here! Man down!”

There was a rush and thunder. He heard Sally Donovan’s voice growl something at John. She leaned over, and her hand cradled Lestrade’s face. She swore, then said, “It’s all right, Gov. You’re going to be all right—medics on the way, yeah?”

Then she was gone.

“Where…” He looked at John, aware that somehow he was sitting on the floor with John squatting on his heels nearby.

“Don’t worry. Lie down, Greg. I have to apply pressure—“

“Where’s Sal? Does she know there’s—“

“Yeah, I told her, mate. Just lie down. You’re bleeding.”

“Fuck that—been bleeding a half-hour,” Lestrade grumbled. “Not dead yet…did you explain—“

“Damn it, Greg.” John did something not entirely friendly, and Lestrade found himself lying on his back staring up at the ceiling of Paddington Station, looking at the lights. They were too bright. He hurt, he thought—hurt pretty badly.

Somewhere a siren whooped, coming closer. It said too much that it took him long moments to realize it was probably the ambulance, coming for him.

“It hurts when I breathe,” he said to John. “In the shoulders. It hurts.”

“Yeah—internal bleeding’s irritating your diaphragm,” he said. “They’re coming now. I’ve called ahead to the A&E. They’re ready for you.” Then John was gone, and Lestrade could hear him talking to someone else. Then there was a “one-two-three” and he was up, and on a gurney, and rattling out of the station at speed, a jarring rush that shook him and left him in tears as every part of him screamed.

“I’ll ride with him,” John said, and when they tried to argue he declared himself Lestrade’s doctor—which was not technically true, but Lestrade wasn’t arguing—and proceeded to say something short and ferocious about Kandahar and Helmand Province, and then no one was arguing with him anymore.

Lestrade stayed still and worked on breathing as they settled the gurney in the ambulance and began poking and prodding and taking readings and generally crawling over his body like hyenas in a feeding frenzy. Then it was done, and the ambulance rolled through the streets. John sat at his side, fingers still tight over his pulse.

“I was fine,” Lestrade whined. “I was doing good. Then we got there and—POW!”

“Got where you needed to get and folded, mate,” John said, amiably. “You’re a mess—but you were able to make it out. That’s all your body was willing to offer, though, and I can’t blame it.” He looked up. “How much damage?” he asked the paramedics.

“Multiple contusions on the head. Gunshot--a graze on his thigh. Broken ribs—nasty, splintering. Bleeding inside and out. But think he got lucky. I don’t think anything vital got hit. But it’s abdominal. We’re going to want to be sure nothing critical got nicked. At the very least there’s bleeding into the belly.”

John grunted, and turned back to Lestrade. “This is what you get for playing the hero, moron. Throwing yourself between me and those goons.”

“Bought you time to throw the chair,” Lestrade gasped.

“That it did.”

And then they were there, and the gurney rolled heavily down a hospital corridor, and the overhead lights flashed over his face like passing streetlights. He turned his head to John. “Tell Mycroft,” he said.

“Already taken care of, mate,” John said, trotting alongside the gurney.

“No,” Lestrade said. “If I don’t make it, tell My…”

“Tell him yourself,” the nurse on the other side of the gurney said.

And then he was in the OR, and the anesthetist was slipping the mask on. Lestrade bumped it away. “Tell Mycroft,” he said. “Tell him I…”

“Shhhhh,” the anesthetist said, her face kind. “Tell him yourself when you wake up. Now, count down from one hundred.”

And he did—and by the time he reached ninety he’d stopped counting.

oOo

“Why didn’t you tell me,” John growled.

Lestrade, just coming to, looked up at him and frowned. “What?”

“Mycroft. Why didn’t you tell me you and he…”

Lestrade closed his eyes, and said, quietly. “If I said ‘classified’ it would come closer than you’d think.”

“Riiiiight. Classified? Nice trick, that—getting your affairs declaired a matter of national security.”

“Agent,” Lestrade murmured. “And Mike—he’s…”

John sighed, and made a face. “Yeah, all right, the long lanky bastard’s an agent-plus. But seriously, Lestrade—how long?”

Lestrade shrugged, then flinched. “Fuck that hurts.”

“Yeah, well. Two broken ribs, one a compound—and you don’t want to know what it takes to crack a rib through like that. One bullet wound. Multiple concussions. Abdominal surgery. You’re alive to swear—consider yourself one lucky bastard.”

“Yeah.”

“So—how long? You and Mycroft, that is?”

Lestrade squirmed, trying to find a position that was comfortable. He failed, but found one that hurt slightly less than he’d started out. “Depends on how you count,” he said.

“Explain.”

Lestrade swore, softly. That terse baritone booming wasn’t John, but Sherlock. “Nothing to explain, Sherlock.”

“On the contrary—my brother’s had a partner, and had one for some time, and he’s told none of us. Mummy and Father are going to have conniptions. And I’m the one who will be forced to deal with it, because you’re in hospital and Mycroft will be presumed to be too distraught to put up with their nonsense.” He made a deep, bitter growling noise. “Which, unfortunately, appears to be correct. John had to sedate him.”

“I prescribed a sleeping pill, for God’s sake,” John snapped. “He’d been up all night, and apparently for a night or two before that working on some mission.”

“The Volpone thing you walked into,” Lestrade said, then followed with a miserable, “And he’s not my partner. Not—I mean—they’d pull me off cases if it were formal, Sherlock.”

“And they’d be right,” Sherlock snapped. “He was beside himself.”

“So—John shouldn’t work with you?”

“That’s different,” Sherlock snarled.

“No, it’s not—you’re both idiots when the other one’s hurt.”

“He’s my friend, not my…” Sherlock’s voice halted, obviously unwilling to say anything as damning as “lover.” Instead he paused and said, “John’s not gay. He married Mary.”

“And that kept him out of action? Or her?”

“It should have,” Sherlock said fiercely.

“Settle, Sherlock,” John said, firmly. He  sat down in a chair by Lestrade’s bed, and said, casually and calmly, “Mycroft was dead on his feet and couldn’t settle even after you came out of the OR. Too tired, I think—beyond being able to stop. So I had the nurse give him a couple of sleeping pills  and put him in a spare room in isolation—there was a bed free. He’ll be up when he’s slept it off.”

“Good,” Lestrade said, relieved. “Good. I was worried.”

“Apparently the sentiment was mutual,” John said. “So—really. How long have the two of you…”

“We were assigned together over a decade ago,” Lestrade said, hoping it would satisfy the nosy little man. He wasn’t so lucky.

“By assign I assume you mean field work, not—“

“He’s the analyst. I’m the leg man,” Lestrade said. “I like field work. He can do it when he has to, but he hates it. Burns out. We were working similar cases, MI6 and MI5. They seconded me to his unit. It worked, ok?”

“And?”

And Lestrade didn’t want to answer. Didn’t’ want to talk about the times while he was married when he’d come close to breaking his vows, because his partner was closer to him in his odd, quiet way than his wife was. Didn’t want to talk about the years of pensive consideration, as he weighed his own sexuality, unsure where he most reliably fell. Definitely didn’t want to talk about the months after the divorce, or the stress between Sherlock and Mycroft and Moriarty and the entire mess of the jump, and the years of apparent death.

“We get along,” he said, hoping to leave it at that.

“Apparently,” John said, in wry understatement.

“Oh, God, you’re going to pry,” Sherlock snarled. “That does it. I’m going for a cup of tea at the Starbucks across the way. It won’t be perfect, but it will be better than from the machine, and it gives me an excuse to avoid the following conversation.”

“Not having a conversation,” Lestrade growled. He turned his face away from John, listening as Sherlock went batting out of the room in a snit.

John was silent, then said, more apologetically, “Sorry. I just—it came as a surprise.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I mean—it’s all good, but—I thought—“

“Yeah. Tell me about that, too.”

They were silent. John’s presence was warm, though, and kind, though Lestrade would have sworn he could sense the furrowed brow and puzzled eyes trained on him.

“Why?” John asked, finally, voice lost and bewildered. “I mean—Mycroft. He’s…”

Lestrade smiled, then, and closed his eyes.

He didn’t know how to answer, and certainly didn’t know how to answer without it all turning into a muddle of conflicting notions. He found it confusing. How could he explain about the fire and the ice that was Mycroft—the chill reserve outside and the warm, generous hearth-fire within? The cold, precise mind, and the often confused, hesitant feelings? The driving force of his will, and the way his will melted into tenderness and cooperation in private moments.

“You only see the outside,” he said. “My’s…more than that.”

John didn’t comment—but his silence radiated doubt.

“Greg—really. How long have you been together? I mean—together-together?”

“About a year. Not much more. After Sherlock came home. After Magnussen.” He took a deep breath, gritting his teeth against the pain. “He finally needed someone more than he needed to hide.”

He remembered their first time together—so hard to decide who’d been most unsure: him in his first homosexual encounter, or Mycroft attempting love for the first time in decades. They’d passed the lead back and forth, and sometimes neither had led—instead they’d stumbled through that first weekend like babes in the woods, clinging to each other in lost amazement.

“Must be quite a ride, being swept off your feet by Mycroft,” John said. “Did he kidnap you?”

“No,” Lestrade said, smiling. “He made an utter bollox of trying to ask me out. Came across like a blend of Nick Fury and Don Corleone, with maybe a bit of creepy stalker thrown in. I was ready to kill him…” he trailed off, remembering their confrontation.

“Then what?”

Lestrade smiled, eyes closed, remembering Mycroft melting, the armor falling away, the shy eyes peeking out from behind the façade. A first kiss like the sound of melting snow dripping from every branch and roof-gutter, trickling in the sunlight….

“He’s…a very nice man,” Lestrade said.

“Mycroft.”

“Yeah.” He glowed with it, feeling better than the pills or the needles could manage.

He’d guessed before—suspected. Seen the shy, gentle boy in disguise as a terrifying and powerful monster. Seen the mischief that shone again and again in so many ways. The game of his clothing—so sober, yet so often playful. The kindness hidden in ice-cold detatchment. The wit. The constant worry for Sherlock. The love of his nation—a sentimental love in spite of all his pretenses—a love worthy of the lush, romantic portrait of the queen he kept on the wall behind his desk.

His sweet cavalier, hiding behind the Iceman—and both were real. All the brains, all the courage, all the discipline, all the power…and the hesitant man who ducked his head and looked warily at Lestrade from lowered lashes, always a little afraid of rejection—always longing just a bit to be the one swept off his feet.

“Yeah—I can see you’re gone on him,” John said, voice rueful and amused at the same time.

“Yeah,” Lestrade agreed, knowing there was a big stupid grin on his face. “Totally gone.”

There was a tap on the doorframe. Lestrade looked up.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, in his shirtsleeves. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his braces showed. He’d taken his tie off, and unbuttoned his shirt. Lestrade could see the neckline of his vest under everything. Mycroft smiled—a tiny, worried smile few ever saw but Lestrade. “Are you…better?”

“I’m awake,” Lestrade said, suddenly sober and gentle. My worried so easily, and feared so deeply for people he loved. “Really, I came through fine. Ask John—I’ll be up in no time.” He glared at the little doctor, eyes demanding John confirm his statement.

John studied the two men, clearly fascinated. “He may be exaggerating a bit,” he said, dry and amused. “But, yeah—he’s going to be all right in the end. Sore as hell for a few weeks.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes still on Lestrade. “I was worried.”

“I know,” Lestrade said. “I told them to tell you…” He frowned. “I don’t know what I told them to tell you, to tell the truth. It’s all lost in the muddle. But I told them to tell you something.” He took another pained breath, and said, “I tried.”

Mycroft nodded, and tried to straighten and pull his reserve around him, now he was more sure his partner would be all right. “I should hope so, Inspector.”

“Always, Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade grinned, happy to see My revive.

The thin, wide lips tightened, and Mycroft said, again, “I worried.”

Lestrade patted the side of the bed. “Come on over, My. See for yourself.”

Mycroft straightened and looked warily at John. “Perhaps when you feel better.”

“No, My, now. Or you’ll worry all night.”

The chin went up, the mouth went tight—but My’s eyes were big, and fond, and laughing. He crossed the room with his head high, and sat like an empress at the edge of the bed, posture perfect. One hand, though, slipped out and gripped Lestrade’s. “You’re not supposed to get shot, Inspector.”

“Tell the Volpones.” Lestrade wove his fingers through Mycroft’s, and drew his hand up. He ran the knuckles over his lips, then let their hands back down again to rest on his chest. “Wasn’t my idea of a fun time. And Watson here bumbling right into the middle of it.”

“Wouldn’t have done so well if I hadn’t,” John grumbled. “Don’t forget, I threw the chair.”

“And he called the ambulance,” Mycroft said. “He has his moments of usefulness.” He looked gratefully at John, and John, surprised, mumbled something about being only too happy to be of service.

“My, you’ve got to rest,” Lestrade said, thumb rubbing over Mycroft’s fingers. “You’re bucking sleeping pills, but you need to sleep.”

“I just wanted to be sure you were all right.”

“I know. But go on—come see me again when you’re rested—and when I am, too. Right?”

Mycroft gave a crooked little grin, the private, wicked boy only glancing out, as John was much too present for him to risk appearing entirely. But Lestrade’s lover was in there, smiling for him. “Whatever. You do know Anthea will be relentless once I’m properly awake?”

“I’ll growl at her,” Lestrade said, and meant it.

Mycroft’s fingers tightened over his. “Sleep well, Inspector.”

“I will, My.”

The tall man stood, and towered above him. He was both Mycrofts at that moment: the reserved and tender man with a heart of marshmallow, and the Iceman, who was the British Government. A classic British gentleman—a classic gentle man. “Do try not to get into any more trouble, Lestrade?”

“John will make sure I don’t,” he said, smiling up at his love.

Mycroft nodded, and left.

The room was silent for long moments. Then John said, “I see.”

“See what?”

“That’s why you didn’t tell me.”

“Hmmm?” Lestrade was still looking at the door, smiling at the thought of his silly Mycroft, with his forelock dangling down in a curl on his forehead, and his braces showing, unable to sleep for worry about Lestrade.

“You have something that special, you want to keep it classified,” John said, teasing. Then, “I’m out of here, Greg. See you tomorrow. Sleep well.” He turned off the bedside light and left.

Lestrade lay in the not-ever-really-dark dimness of hospital rooms everywhere, and smiled and smiled, remembering Mycroft and his contradictions: sweet and tart, confident and shy, commanding and hesitant, leader and led…fierce and tender. Manly and fey.

His Mycroft.

He fell asleep remembering that first kiss, that had contained it all in one magic touch.

 

 **Nota** Bene:  There are many marvelous images of Mark Gatiss/Mycroft from the series that show the sweetness and laughter and mischief and tenderness of Mycroft--the man behind the ice. [This one](http://media.tumblr.com/fc66047b9dd0b63e8b57e0d8f51c32ce/tumblr_inline_myzt1cOKCC1r5lfl4.jpg), however, is the one that for me just captures the hidden element of the character, and is the one who got the starring roll in both "Control" and "Classified."  No one, seeing that face, could ever accept that Sherlock's right about Mycroft having enjoyed seeing Sherlock being hurt or doubt Mycroft truly adores his brother. He's alight with the idea of bringing Sherlock home, and his face is a boy's face, looking forward to summer holidays and renewed ties.


End file.
